


The Help

by eisenhardted



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5752435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eisenhardted/pseuds/eisenhardted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Cuba everything is falling apart; unfortunately, nobody's quite sure how to put it back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Hello? Is anyone in here? Hank? Mr.Xavier?” The voice is hesitant, calling out with an uncertainty that might have been endearing had it’s owner not been trespassing. The house is dark when Magda stands in it’s hallway, a sort of muted sepia from many drawn curtains and shades, like a building out of a memory rather than the present reality. It makes her feel uncomfortable, like she’s in a tomb rather than a home - but she supposes that’s why she’s there, to breathe life back into it and clean it up like the new penny she knows it can be. 

Charles isn’t expecting company, yet the voice lures him from his dismal hiding place all the same. He foolishly thinks for a minute, that perhaps it’s Raven, maybe she’s finally seen sense and come home to him, but the voice is too foreign. Too light, and not at all as he remembers it. He thinks it’s another estate agent trying to get him to sell. Thinks that it’s a vulture, ready to pick at the scraps of his life - and naturally, he responds accordingly. In his usual dishevelled state as of late, his footsteps guide him uneasily from his room to the top of the staircase, scotch glass still in hand as he reels off his dismissal of this intruder. “…this is private property. So regardless of who you are, or what you’re selling, I’d very much advise you to fu—“ 

The words die when he sees her. When he catches a glimpse of that happy little brunette, beaming at him from behind a thick wool overcoat. He feels like he knows her face, like it’s a snippet from someone else’s memory, leaving him warm and uncomfortable for reasons he daren’t confess to. It makes him second guess his rudeness, makes him reel it in and try not to swear at that doe eyed woman through fear of sealing his fate and booking a one way ticket to hell. “…Miss, I think you have the wrong house.” He slurs out finally, propping himself up against the banister as he peers down at her, wondering if this is even real or just a scotch tinged haze. 

“I don’t think so sir. This is the right place. Hank invited me. Well…hired me actually. He said you could do with some help.” The Polish native replies kindly, showing neither judgement or scorn in her eyes when she keeps them trained on him, even as a Jack swilling bohemian. She’s been married to worse. Unbuttoning her coat and unlooping the scarf that’s draped around her neck, Magda shuffles, arms folding across her chest as she waits for judgement. “I can leave if you’d prefer, but it’s easier to clean in daylight than under cover of darkness. Far easier to spot the muck.” She teases in a half breath, trying to ease the tension that seems palpably awkward.

“What?” Charles squints, trying to process the information before shrugging it off. “If Hank asked you then fine. Just keep it down.” He makes a point of saying it, even if noise would hardly be a hardship in the echoey house. He misses the days when it was full of laughter, but those are long gone, much like the young lives he’d watch crumble and been powerless to help. “…do you have a name?” He asks aloud, finding it easier than simply labelling this stranger as ‘the help.’ He may have been drunk and grossly depressed, but even he hadn’t forgotten all of his manners. 

“Magda.” There’s no hesitation when she says it, and no flicker of that smile fading when she’s taking off her coat and hanging it on the dusty coat stand just behind the door. Nobody’s used that since before Cuba, since Erik really, and that’s ironic enough in itself. It’s a nice name, or so Charles thinks, but he does very nearly forget it when presented with the lovely visual of that fitted tight dress, and apron. It reminds him too much of the maid he’d had as a child, or perhaps even of the first dirty magazines he’d been introduced to in his teens.

He doesn’t realise he’s holding his breath when she’s tiptoeing up to reach, doesn’t acknowledge the steady burn in his cheeks at how that hemline creeps up, but still remains decent enough to foil wherever his inebriated mind wants to wander. He can’t help himself when he’s staring, when subconsciously his feet are leading him down that staircase as if this is a beautiful mirage he’s going to forget once the hangover kicks in. 

“I want your D.” 

The words echo in his head and he nearly drops the glass, stuttering ever so slightly as he blinks and processes the words he could’ve sworn he’d just heard. What kind of maid had Hank hired? Was this some unconventional kind of kink strip-therapy? Because you know, he could get on board with that if it was for medicinal gain… “Excuse me?” Charles exclaims, incredulous and more than a little taken aback. 

“I said did you want some tea, silly? I think I can navigate the kitchen for you before I get to work.” The reality isn’t quite his expectation, but he’ll take the kindness for what it is, considering the view. He daren’t complain, not when this is perhaps the most useful Hank’s done for him since creating the serum. 

“Ah. Yes. Tea. That would be lovely.” Charles is still dazed, still stealing little glances at the back of her knees and higher still when she’s walking just a few paces in front. He feels like a pauper in his dressing gown with unkempt hair, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe he wants to be a poor penniless artist, trying to find an identity, instead of being the trusted and revered scholar everyone seems to need him to be. He just wants to switch off, to drown his sorrows and to be left to his own devices. He wants to be numb, is that really so much to ask?

“Can I give you some sugar?” It’s another question that has him pondering what he’s hearing, when at last they’re in the kitchen and she’s busying herself with cupboards that are as scattered as his life with Hank. It isn’t what she means. He knows it’s not what she means, but he likes to revel in it all the same. To try and divulge fact from fiction and amuse his male ego in the process. 

“Darling you can give me as much sugar as you like.” He replies in kind, immediately realising he’d perhaps misheard the new arrival’s words or at least twisted her meaning, when he can see that attractive little tinge of pink creeping ever so slightly into tanned cheeks. Oh good lord, what was Hank thinking hiring that in his house? It’s like giving a starving man a steak and asking him not to eat it. Mind you, maybe the odd nibble every now and then wouldn’t be entirely unwarranted…


	2. Chapter 2

Three weeks in and already the novelty’s worn off. 

It had been nice at first, the improvement to the scenery (sorry Hank!) had certainly been welcomed, but that had been before it began to impact on him so directly. Cleaning downstairs wasn’t a problem, nor was whipping up the odd meal for him (even if he swore blind the newest house addition was perhaps a little too liberal with black pepper) - it was the invasion of his personal dwelling that had managed to get under his skin. 

It was his cave of sorts, a room permanently shrouded by darkness and gloom, cut off from the world in a way that some might deem isolating but to Charles - had become cathartic. He wasn’t hiding, he’d hasten to tell all who dared accuse him of such, he was just preserving what remained of his sanity and trying his best to shut off all that could do him harm. Don’t get attached, he’d remind himself time and time again, haunted by flickers of familiar faces, of beaming smiles and magnetic personalities. It was easier this was, maybe apathetic too to a certain extent, but he needed his privacy. He needed his space. 

Half awake and unmistakably hungover, the dishevelled Professor groaned despite himself as foreign fingertips dared to ghost through those matted strands. “Charles.” The tone is soft, calm and level, like a parent trying so hard to coerce a child into compliance. It makes him feel a little sick, in part due to the ache of knowing his own mother had never once been quite so tender - but mostly because this was going to make it exceedingly difficult to be mean to the woman expressing some degree of compassion to him in his less than stellar moment. “Charles, I need to make your bed and it’s a lot easier to do if you’re not in it.” 

The telepath groans again, swatting at the irritating hand and burying his face in his pillow. “Five more minutes.” He mumbles against the feather-stuffed object, delaying the inevitable while also resisting the urge to start throwing around far more colourful protests. She doesn’t deserve them and deep down he knows that, which is perhaps why chivalry even now remains firmly rooted in the back of his mind, despite his own unmitigated desire to sleep away all that ailed him.

“It’s three in the afternoon, come on lazybones. Up.” Where exactly the line is drawn between professionalism and personal need, Magda isn’t sure, but after much coaching from Hank, she’s come to learn that this job is somehow a mixture of both. She’s less a maid and more of a governess, half-housekeeper and babysitter, somehow rolled into one. It’s not the worst thing in the world, frustrating though certain days may be, and she’s sure in some way - even bickering is better than leaving Charles in his own company, consumed and overwhelmed by pain that isn’t always his own. 

“My house, my rules.” Comes the inhospitable reply, words grating on his tongue as at last that hand ceases it’s fussing. For a moment he almost misses it, that soothing little bit of comfort, but stubbornness will always win out in the end. He’s too proud to accept this coddling, to be reduced to someone incapable of taking care of himself - but it’s endearing in it’s own way, no matter how insufferable. 

Despite the absence of touch however, she still doesn’t leave, instead merely taking up refuge on the floor beside his bed, kneeling down and waiting, counting down those precious five minutes before attempting it all over again. She’s quiet for the most part, but he can hear her moving, hear her quiet exhalations as she touches various bits and bobs on his dresser, examining photo frames and dog-eared dust-strewn books. 

It’s enough to make him crack open an eye, to scan through the half-light in time to watch a finger graze the photo of his sister. It seems a lifetime ago that she walked into his life, he still remembers Oxford and the years that came before, with such fondness it almost lessens the bitterness of her absence. Nostalgia is still a dull ache though, no matter how much he might try to pretend it’s not. 

“She’s pretty.” Is a mild observation, something inoffensive to break the silence. Raven is the opposite of Magda, tall and blonde with a dewy complexion, she’s the stuff of movies, a Hollywood starlet out of time and place. Granted she doesn’t know the half of it, doesn’t know that underneath that porcelain aesthetic there are scales of a deep cerulean blue, but that doesn’t matter either. In any case, the beauty’s in her eyes, in the confidence even a photograph has found a way to exude. 

The subject matter is all it takes for Charles to finally move, to push himself up from his blanketed shroud and smile sadly at the face he so sorely misses. “My sister would’ve loved that ego boost.” He can just picture her grin at being told such news, a quip rolling from those peachy lips as she’d laugh and bow, revelling in the moment. He wonders then, if she’s still smiling now. If wherever she’s ended up, she’s still as vibrant, still as tenacious and wild as he’d known in their youth. He misses that life. He misses her - yet no matter how jovial his memories, they always fall back into the shadow of someone else. 

“Do you see her much?” Magda asks without knowing, without understanding the minefield in which she now treads. Charles can’t blame her for her obliviousness, but in that moment he certainly doesn’t appreciate it. His jaw sets firm, lips pursed as he reaches for his bedside decanter, pouring out liquid absolution and downing it in one. 

“No.” Not since Cuba. Not since Erik. Charles frowns, his eyebrows furrowing together as he slumps back into his crumpled sheets, turning away from the mocking gaze of that happy photograph and the woman that dares to unwittingly stir up the past. “Someone else stole her away a long time ago.”


	3. Chapter 3

For someone that’s supposed to make his life that much easier, Charles has come to find the latest addition to his household exceedingly distracting. It’s not her fault he supposes, that he’s trying to read while she’s scrubbing the floor - but it’s terribly difficult to express the least bit of interest in Darwin when he’s got the most undeniable view down the poor girl’s blouse. It’s not a bad view either, he makes a point of affirming to himself as he tries to remain discreet, focusing on the words before his eyes as much as the gentle bouncing curve he can see out of the very corner of his eye. 

It’s like being back at Oxford, sneaking glances at the co-eds, when he should otherwise be studying. He doesn’t want to be too obvious, yet at the same time, he’s merely a man, he can’t quite help it now that he knows where to look. His eye is simply drawn to that slither of caramel skin as it ghosts down over her collarbones, the friction of a scrubbing brush against the floor casting shadow and light over it as he tries so very hard not to make a sound. In the end he has to, clearing his throat with a cough as much as it is a groan of approval. What the hell had Hank been thinking letting her in his home? Wearing that get-up too, of all things. It was a sweet torture far more than any cathartic remedy to what ailed him. 

“You can leave the floor, love, I think it’s clean enough.” Charles offers with his usual gentlemanly charm, making an ample point of not allowing what he’s thinking to creep into anywhere she might be able to discover it. He’s glad she’s not a telepath when she looks up at him with those big doe eyes, sitting back on her heels and straightening up with an expression that makes him wonder just how perfect those lips would look wrapped somewhere else entirely. It’s a thought that makes him squirm, shifting in his seat as he lowers his book to his lap as a precautionary measure. 

“Yes sir.” With a smile she complies, but the words are killing him as much as the expression. _Sir_ sounds like something out of a smutty novel, the formality there doing nothing to stop the flow of blood southwards. He understands the need for respect, the cultural variation perhaps thrown into the mix too, but good god, the things he’d do to her if she kept calling him it. It’s a power trip and a half, yet as much as he wants to say he hates it, there’s a darker undercurrent to him that is enjoying it far too much. 

“It’s just Charles, darling.” It’s his turn to counter it, to relax it into something a little more amenable when Magda’s straightening up and sashaying past him, to set the bucket and brush aside and resume her dusting. She’s made a lot of progress on his home in the last week, turning it from a darkened shade into something that resembled it’s former glory. He’s grateful for that, perhaps more than she’s aware, - but speech isn’t something he’s easily able to give to strangers just yet, and she’s still that to him. A stranger to be held at arm’s length, despite the therapeutic merit of someone that drastically improves the scenery. “Oh, and don’t forget the top of the bookcase if you can reach, I think there was an eight legged lodger up there the other day.” 

It always feels strange to be issuing orders, but the brunette doesn’t seem to mind and that takes the edge off the Professor’s ill feeling somewhat. He doesn’t expect much of an answer, but there’s something about the way she calls out to him after a few minutes from halfway up the book ladder, reaching out to try and catch the furthest corner of the domineering structure with a dangerous degree of risk. “Charles?” It’s soft and pleading, as if nervously asking him anything is somehow going to get her into trouble. It melts his heart enough to draw him from his recline, feet podding to glance up at her with a debonair, yet slightly scruffy smile. “Hmm?” 

“Can you…can you hold the ladder for me? Please? Just for a second. I promise it won’t be long.” How could he deny such a request in all honesty? Throwing her a reassuring glance, his hands settle on either side of the wooden structure to brace it for her cleaning as she steps a few rungs higher, and cranes a little further to the left once more, one foot already rising to accommodate the shift in balance. He does his best to look anywhere else at first, but in the end it’s too tempting to follow the silky expanse of stockings up beneath her dress, the peek of lace and garters clearly visible where it meets with skin under a pouff of petticoats. 

He needs the bathroom enough to make him hold his breath, needs to rectify the sudden discomfort he’s got below the belt without drawing attention to himself. As discreetly as possible he releases one hand, dropping it down ever so slightly to itch at his thigh and inconspicuously adjust himself while his new maid is occupied. He’s chosen the wrong time to let go of the ladder though, chosen the wrong time entirely because the wheeled contraption slips, sending the duster wielding Pole dropping down abruptly and unmistakably on top of him with a squeal that turned him on far more than was even appropriate. 

Ever the victim of gravity, his back thudded into the rug, the floorboards beneath him creaking as he acclimatised to the petite woman straddling him down, her hair fallen loose and around her face as she stares at him with the utmost horror. They’re nose to nose and barely breathing, fingers reaching up to push back the curls that are blinding her as she looks at Charles with the utmost concern. “I’m so sorry. Really, przykro mi. Are you alright? You’re not hurt are you? ” The way she fusses is adorable, squirming against him without a care for what it’s doing to him as she checks him over with warm hands and an even warmer heart. 

“I’m fine, love.” He replies hoarsely, venturing his hand up an intrusive thigh to coax it from around his waist so that he can at least breathe again, yet getting it halfway up to that sandy skin, only to let it rest there, waiting for some misguided act of permission, or the slap he thinks he might be otherwise entitled to. 

Magda drops her gaze when she notices, eyeing his hand with an unreadable expression before pecking softly between his eyes. “I’m glad.” And she is, because he’s a good man even if he is a little rough around the edges and in need of a good bath. Clambering from Charles’ waist to allow him to sit up on his own, with a sheepish little blush, she sits at his side in her unkempt state, her fingers hooking ever so gently over his own in her own act of apology for what had transpired. 

Charles didn’t care though, he was more than happy to suffer if this was the reward. “Are you?” He all but whispers, leaning in to the shell of her ear and ghosting his own quiet kisses down the side of her neck, tasting the sweetness of unfamiliar skin and the faintest hint of burnt sugar. 

She doesn’t stop him, doesn’t do anything save for extending her neck to give him a better canvas to work with in their unorthodox little act of comfort and solidarity. It’s the least she can do. She’s just nearly flattened the poor man after all. But it’s more than that isn’t it? It’s that faint and little flicker of attraction that’s been fanned into something else, something raw and passionate when her head tilts and she tugs at his hair, gifting him with tongue and teeth alike in a very real and very carnal “Yes.”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s hard to put into words, quite what a yo-yoing existence this is. Some days, he wants nothing better than to just drown in liquid misery, yet others there’s the glimmer there of the man that existed before. Charles likes to think he’s getting better on his own merit, but the company’s certainly helped. It’s a nicer balance to his days, being able to talk science with Hank, and then indulge in other more frivolous pursuits with Magda. He’s not sure quite how it happened of course, he’s learnt now, not to question the good, when surrounded by so much bad, yet it’s still a strange juxtaposition all the same. 

Today he’s content in his study, still a little dishevelled, but at least back in the real world, away from his cave of despair. Hank’s perched opposite, trying his hand at chess against the telepath and the interlude of calm there is indescribably palpable. A few feet away, Magda is folding laundry, casting speculative glances every so often at the terse expressions of concentration and trying not to outwardly laugh. Is this what it was like before? She doesn’t know the intricacies of what happened at Cuba, doesn’t know much of anything about the accident if she’s being honest - she just knows that once upon a time, this empty mansion had been a thriving school, bubbling with life and potential. 

It’s not hard to imagine such a majestic building in it’s prime. She can just picture it now, bright and clear in her mind’s eye. The walls deserve to be filled with laughter again, with joy and enthusiasm for whatever it was they’ve come there to learn. Mutation is still a little off the cuff, a topic best left unmentioned for all involved, but even something scholarly is enough to pique her interest, to make her wonder what it’s like to learn, to experience a first class education first hand. 

The brunette isn’t the only one imagining things though, Charles too is allowing his mind to wander, his attention struck down by the overwhelming weight of nostalgia this game brings with it. He’d played with Hank back then too of course, but it’s Erik that he thinks of as he moves a knight to claim a bishop. Countless hours had been spent in this very room, talking politics and wonders of the world over a game that was far from relaxing. It had always been the running joke, how competitive and tactical they became when the pressure was on, but somehow the highlight of his evenings had now become bittersweet, a tormenting memory that sits like an open wound, slowly festering despite all attempts to heal it. 

Nobody had ever understood him quite like Erik, nor pushed him either. That was part of what had made their bond so strong, so irreplaceable really. They brought out the best and worst in each other, two sides of the same coin, the yin to the yang. He wasn’t sentimental enough to say they were soul mates - that required some firm belief in the existence of a soul at all, but the connection was vital and in the wake of his betrayal, the loose bonds of friendship now hung limply from where they’d been severed. 

It shouldn’t ache this much. He’d moved on since then. His life did not, in any way shape or form, need to revolve around Erik bloody Lehnsherr - and yet there he was, still thinking of him, still haunted by the razored smile and eyes he could drown in. The telepath sighs, a dull ache resuming it’s presence in his head as the serum begins to wear off. Knuckles knead softly at his temples, massaging down the pain as much as the memory - although he supposes the connection is as accurate as it is ironic, the infamous Magneto always had been a herald for pain. 

“Professor?” Hank interjects through the silence with a look of concern, bright eyes seeking out those of the stubbly mutant as if anticipating a request. He doesn’t enjoy placating his friend with a medicinal crutch, but at the same time, he’s not so sadistic as to derive any joy from watching him suffer either. It’s the lesser evil and they both know it. 

Waving a hand dismissively, Charles twitches, nodding at the chess board before them and trying to focus upon that. “It’s your move, Hank.” He prompts with only a hint of derision, aching and uncertain, but still entirely determined to finish this game. He’s loved chess for as long as he can remember, he will not be defeated by something as inconsequential as thoughts of broken friendships and ill advised relationships. 

Not entirely convinced, the long sufficing mutant clears his throat, casting a pleading glance to Magda as he resumes the tactical warfare that is Chess. It’s one of the reasons she’s there, Hank’s concluded. A bit of an unofficial add-on duty of course, but someone willing to fight his corner with him against Charles’ stubbornness could hardly ever be a bad thing. 

“Be nice, Charles, don’t rush him.” There’s humour in her tone as she abandons her laundry in favour of shifting closer, surveying the board and perching unceremoniously upon Charles’ chair arm. She doesn’t have a clue in terms of what to suggest, but she can placate her employer in some respects, by leafing through his hair and trying to alleviate that headache with some degree of massage. It’s not entirely effective, but it could be worse. 

Hank hums, grateful for the momentary distraction as he nudges his queen forwards with a thumb. “Do you play?” He asks curiously, it seems everyone that’s ever stepped through these doors has perfected their skills at some point - and if they hadn’t played before they got there, they certainly had by the time they left. 

“No. My husband tried to teach me once, I kept confusing it with chequers and thinking I could claim pieces back every time I reached the opposite side of the board.” The admission is sheepish, cheeks colouring up ever so slightly as Magda shrugs, the weight of the golden circlet on her finger suddenly feeling that little bit heavier at the memory. 

“I didn’t know you were married.” Charles is side-eyeing her, a curiously unreadable expression lingering on his face as he lets Hank vocalise his own shock, while the Professor restrains his own. It’s not a crime of course, and he’d never asked, it’s just strange that until now, there’s no mention of any husband, no mention of family particularly. It’s just like realising you’ve only been living in someone’s half-life, completely cut off from entire facets of their history. 

“Were being the operative word. That ship sailed a long time ago.” Well, it’s probably less sailed and more shot down in a fiery bloodbath, but that’s not the angle you really want to take with friends. She’s not sure she even dare admit to what Max had been, let alone what he was clearly capable of. But for all of her doubt, and all of her pain, she still wears her ring, still feels connected and obligated to him in some distant way. 

“But still…” Charles is picking at it, scratching at something that’s still trying to heal. She isn’t sure she wants this conversation, nor to have Hank caught up in the middle of it, and so she changes the subject, nodding towards the board and humming complacently all the while. 

“Come on, show us how it’s done.”


End file.
